The Injury and The Cross
by rhapsodybree
Summary: Ever wondered why Lisbon seems to have a stiff right arm? Here’s my theory. Lisbon, with the slightest bit of Jane.


Disclaimer: I own nothing, except my own creations.

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Easing down into chair in the CBI Headquarters small staff room, Special Agent Teresa Lisbon winced in pain as she moved her right arm experimentally.

The muscles were stiff.

Ramming the suspect that Rigsby had been chasing with her right shoulder probably hadn't been the best idea. Granted, the man had gone flying over her head to land with a satisfying thunk on the ground behind, ready to be conveniently handcuffed, but she'd paid the price instantly when a flare of pain shot down her arm.

Biting her bottom lip as she gingerly rotated her shoulder, her left hand sought out the cross she always wore on the chain around her neck.

It was gone.

Groaning as she realised that her punishment was now twofold, she eased her left hand to her shoulder and massaged it. Remaining seated stiffly upward, she marvelled that she should lose her cross while hurting her arm, considering that the first time she'd found the cross fifteen years ago, she'd also hurt her shoulder for the first time...

Her father had come home early that night. Tony, Bobby and Ditch had thankfully been asleep when Jimmy Lisbon had stumbled into the kitchen drunk.

She'd had plans to be long gone, in her room studying for a test, but Tony had needed a plate to share for the school carnival the following day, and so she'd stayed down late.

When her father had lumbered in, swearing loudly and demanding a drink, she'd fastened the last of the cling wrap and prayed that her brothers would remain asleep – or at the very least, stick to their rooms like she'd told them. Picking up the plate, she tried to slip from the kitchen without being noticed.

He'd caught her movement though and repeated his demand for a drink. She'd refused to serve him and hadn't been quick enough to react. Maybe if she'd had a decent night's sleep and a good day, she might have stood a chance, but the late nights were beginning to take their toll.

Instead, her father had grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. She could smell the booze on his breath as his grip tightened on her upper arm. She wasn't scared, but instead felt a great pity for the man that used to be her father – now just a shell of the man he used to be.

Wanting to get away, she'd put her weight behind herself and pulled. But at the exact moment she did so, he'd let her go. Overbalancing, and unable to correct herself, she hit the corner of the door with a loud whack, the plate of fairy bread sent flying. Feeling something pop, she'd almost passed out from the pain.

At her cry, her father had turned into a blubbering mess, apologising for hurting her.

Holding her right arm tightly to her, she'd looked at the sorry sight now openly sobbing on the floor and knew without a doubt that he would soon be passed out.

She felt nothing – her emotional walls like rock – as she somehow managed to pick up the thankfully still wrapped paper plate and leave the room.

It had been a sleepless night before she followed her three brothers out the door – their father thankfully no where to be seen – and headed for the school bus. Unable to fight the pain for much longer, she'd managed to get to the school nurse, fabricating some excuse for her injury.

A door had opened on her, if she recalled correctly.

The most painful thing hadn't been the pain, nor the arm that had never healed one hundred percent, but rather the fact that her injury had no lasting impact on her father.

He'd come to the hospital the worried father, and she'd seen a glimpse of the man before her mother died. He'd been caring, promised that she wouldn't have to worry about a thing and sworn off the booze once and for all.

But two days later, the man that had occupied their lives for the past two years had returned and all hope died.

He'd promised to pick up Bobby from baseball practice, and she'd even seen him leave the house to do it. But as the sun set and the streetlights came on, she'd felt that sinking feeling that came with broken hopes.

As Ditch obediently added up his maths problems, she'd sworn that she would never allow herself to fall into that trap again.

When there was a knock on the door shortly after, she'd plastered her game face on. Opening it, she found a father of Bobby's teammate on the doorstep, her younger brother standing close by, head bowed.

'Teresa!' asked Gerry Cox. 'Is your father in?'

'No sorry,' she said politely. Tightly. 'He's out.'

'No worries, no worries,' the affable man responded. 'Bobby here looked like he needed a lift, so... What happened to your arm?'

'I fell.' She couldn't tell if Gerry Cox believed her or not, but she pulled the door open wider and her brother passed obediently by. 'Thank you for bringing Bobby home Mr Cox,' she said, keeping her tears at bay.

Shutting the door, she swore that she needed better control of her emotions.

Knowing that her father wouldn't be home for some hours, she slipped into his room. Ignoring the unmade bed and the clothes lying everywhere, she headed straight for the wardrobe where she knew her father had boxed away her mother's things.

The top of her arm and shoulder bound tightly, she'd eased the cumbersome box into her arm and left the room. She'd ignored Tony's happy regaling of his successful carnival as she shut the door and sat on her bed.

Opening the box of mementos, tears pooled in her eyes.

She pulled out various knick knacks and personal belongings before she spied a photo tucked along the side of the box. Pulling it free, she saw a crinkled image of the six of them in happier times – before the crash.

Angrily dashing her tears away, she ran a finger along the tattered edges. Placing it to the side, she spotted something shiny beneath it. Wincing when her excitement had jolted her arm, she'd gingerly brought forward the gold chain. The chain pooled in her palm and she noted the decoration with a sharp intake of breath.

The cross.

It was the cross that her mother had always worn, the cross that she had feared lost in the car crash that had killed her. As there were knocks on her door from three hungry boys wanting dinner, she took strength from the unexpected find.

As soon as she'd been able, she'd clasped the necklace around her neck and worn it every day since. She lived to dread the day she lost it.

She blinked back tears as the strong memories flooded her and she came back to reality. Her left hand had once again left her shoulder, seeking the necklace that was no longer there. _Looks like today was the day_, she thought, her heart sinking.

Teresa Lisbon startled when a glass of water slid into her line of sight and something warm slid onto her shoulder, the heat a welcome respite.

Looking up, quickly adjusting when the angle put unnecessary strain on her aching muscles, she saw Patrick Jane handing her two pills. She smiled thinly as she obediently threw the pain medication into her mouth, gulped down half the glass of water and swallowed.

She was placing the glass on the table when van Pelt stepped in. 'You right there boss?'

'Just dandy,' she gritted in response, preparing herself for a mental one, two, three to stand up. She never got to three as the silent consultant grasped her hand and pulled her up, somehow without further pain to her shoulder.

He turned to leave before she could thank him. Watching the grey vest follow the redhead from the room, it took her a long moment to realise that she now held something in the palm of her hand. Peeling back her fingers, her breath hitched as she realised what it was.

The cross.

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**Author's Note: **This fic come to mind after watching a few episodes of The Mentalist where Lisbon seems to hold her arm stiffly on occasion. And so my imagination ran wild, and this is the reason I have for it!


End file.
